


oh king of avarice

by shannyan



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Bad Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Eye Trauma, M/M, actually this is all my berserk thoughts and meta in fic form, griffith aplogism, yeah i’ve decided that’s my brand now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 15:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20530598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannyan/pseuds/shannyan
Summary: Griffith realizes gods aren’t bound by rules. A true god takes what they want.a Griffith wins au.





	oh king of avarice

It’s cowardly, unnoble, plainly evil. They come at night, a huge number of them— his brand wakes him, and the first thing he sees when he opens his eye is a black sky, not a star in sight. 

There’s only a second for him to decide— wake up his companions so they can fight with him, or run away from them, to spare them. The answer is so obvious it can’t be called a choice. 

He kills hundreds of them, maybe a fucking thousand, breaks practically all his bones in the process, almost loses his other arm too— but there are thousands of them. None match him, but he’s worn down, cut by cut. Before he loses consciousness he can only curse himself for being weak, and doesn’t consider where they all came from. 

Waking up was unexpected. He’s confident he’s dead— nothing hurts anymore, his head is fuzzy, body heavy, and he almost drifts back to sleep… and then the brand burns. He cracks an eye open and it’s—

Guts could attribute his initial reaction to Griffith as shock— He never thought he’d see his face again, so youthful, so alive, even more beautiful than before. The second time— shock as well, because of his words, his coldness, impassivity. All this time he couldn’t fathom that Griffith felt  _ nothing _ , that wasn’t the man he knew— the man he thought he knew. Griffith was heavily burdened by guilt, self conscious of his cruel pragmatism, grateful to his comrades. Whoever this was, wasn’t the same man at all. And so he should have learned his friend was truly gone, and Femto wears Griffith’s skin. He should be able to muster that great hate that strikes him each and every day. 

And yet once again Guts finds himself frozen before him. He can’t will himself to move even as Griffith’s hand closes in on him. He can blame it on the debilitating pain from the brand, spitting blood like a warning, to run run run. But he isn’t so weak to lie like that. 

Guts cringes away from his touch, retreating inwards, dazed but still cautious. They haven’t touched since Griffith was… since right before the eclipse. He hadn’t been strong enough to lay a hand on Femto, during what couldn’t even be called a fight. Nor was he when they met the other time, though he was weak… in a different way. 

Undeterred, Griffith lays his palm flat against Guts’ neck, who’s now ready to die from the pain, grits his teeth in anticipation, and when the bleeding suddenly stops he truly does believe that he’s dead…. 

His touch is gentle at first, skimming the wound, as if it were still fresh (wasn’t it though?) He lifts Guts’ eyelid up with his thumb, and though it was long healed, he felt a phantom pain deep in the socket. Despite himself, he closes his good eye, though he normally would never surrender his sight in front of an enemy. And it wasn’t that he didn’t consider Griffith as an enemy (no,  _ no _ ), not an act of trust or submission, but his body just reacting. 

“I could fix this.” His voice is so soft, but so powerful, confident, knowing. Finally hearing it again shakes him, he doesn’t even register his words at first. “Your arm as well.”

And then his body wakes up, reminded of what’s been stolen from it. Guts’ lips spread wide over his teeth into a vicious snarl. “You could never fix this.” He was horrified to find that some of his anger (he couldn’t determine how much exactly) was feigned. Was this Griffith’s power, as a god? Or because he was himself? Maybe there’s no difference. 

“No? I could fix Casca as well.”

Her name triggers something within him and he thrashes against his restraints, his shoulder stretching painfully between his bound arm and strained body. His other arm flails uselessly, bicep swinging at nothing. He  _ hated _ taking off his mechanical arm, hated feeling weaker because of it, hated remembering what Griffith had done to him. However the reminder allowed him to muster more anger, hate, hate,  _ hate _ . His head snaps forward and he gnashes his teeth at him, swings his stump of an arm at his head, and of course Griffith moves away quickly enough to avoid it, all composed and nonchalant about it, but at least he’s not touching Guts anymore, that’s a victory. Without his hand on his brand, the pain returned, even worse than before like it was making up for lost time. 

Griffith fucking, he clicks his tongue at him, like he’s a rowdy dog, disappointing, poorly trained. Guts spits at him to complete the image. Griffith dodges this as well, and Guts only gets to see that for a moment before a hand grabs the back of his head and slams it into the floor. Damn, he didn’t even notice that they weren’t alone. 

“How dare you treat Griffith like this, you trash! Would you like to lose your other arm as well??” 

The collision was enough to lacerate his forehead, and the little pain from that was a nice distraction from the brand. He grins even though it can’t be seen, somewhat proud of himself. The foreign hand is grounding, familiar in a way, kicks up his instinct to fight. 

“It’s alright. Leave us.” There’s no objection, the surrounding monsters immediately filed out. Does that mean Griffith is capable without them? How strong  _ is _ he? Guts really wants to find out, wants to break free and make Griffith sorry for underestimating him. 

“You’ll regret that. I’ll kill you.” Guts scrambles out of the forced bowing position to stand back at his feet, as close to Griffith as the bounds would allow. 

“I appreciate the concern regarding my safety.” Griffith smiles at him, eyes trailing down his body, undoubtedly registering the involuntary trembles of pain. No amount of willpower could stop him from reacting to it. He could take it, he  _ could _ , but he couldn’t stop the toll from showing on his body. 

“If you  _ have _ in fact become strong enough to kill me, it would not undo what has already been done. It would in fact invalidate the lives lost to the cause, make their sacrifice in vain.”

He was expecting torture not.. justification. “They didn’t choose to be DAMNED TO HELL so you could become a GOD.” 

“If I had… refused the godhand that day… it would have been the same. It would be a disservice to those who had served me and died for my cause. The moment I dedicated myself to my dream, I was bound to finish it, no matter the cost. 

Griffith approaches him again and he’s caught between lunging at him (he could tear that frail chest apart with his bare hands, pull his heart out fucking eat it) and retreating (the brand hurts so much he’s struggling to stay present). He ends up frozen in place like buridan's ass. 

Griffith’s touch starts at his jawline and languidly drops down his neck. The drag of his hand is torturous, the close proximity to the brand makes it spout blood in panic. Guts’ skin prickles in anticipation, which outweighs the disgust. 

But Griffith withdraws his hand to inspect the blood on it, spreading his fingers and watching how it drips down his wrist. “I wonder… if you could come to understand.”

Guts’s eye narrowed into a slit, he would talk if he was sure he wouldn’t scream once his mouth opened. Griffith examines his hand for a moment longer before finally returning his touch on Guts’ brand. The relief is so immediate he can’t help the following sigh of relief. 

“Have you seen it?” He asks. “My kingdom? It’s everything I had envisioned, everything I had promised.”

Guts scoffs. “Th.. the rest of the world has been thrown into chaos since you opened the gate—“

Griffith cocks his head to the side, the gesture innocent despite the challenging look in his eyes. “So? My kingdom is open to all. People are safe within it.”

“Destroying the world… in order to be the last good thing… makes that worth nothing! The Band of the Hawk would never..” He’s cut off when Griffith’s free hand trails along the side of his face, tracing over scars new and old. Flinching would be losing, so he steadily returns Griffiths gaze in a show of resilience. 

“Regret, guilt, and fear have no place among gods. One must act regardless of repercussions. That’s the resolve necessary for great dreams. It is the single reason I’ve succeeded as I have, and will. Were I saddled by guilt, would anything change? Would it bring them back? It is the same with your feelings of vengeance.”

Guts bares his teeth in rejection. “Things would change. You’d get what you deserve.”

Griffith looks bored when he answers him. “The world would be a worse place without me. Your decisions revolve only around how you feel.” They’re indoors, with only a few stray rays of sunlight peeking in, and yet Griffith was glowing now, the way he always did when he spoke like this, righteous and regal. “I don’t waste time feeling, I  _ act _ . It will all be as it once was. I have brought back all of their souls and had them reborn as apostles. This is why my army bears the name Band of the Hawk.”

This tears a proper reaction out of him— he gapes, single eye wide. “That's... not possible..”

“The definition of what is and isn’t possible is decided by me, and me alone. You should know this about me… I take what I want.” He rubs small circles on the scarred patch of skin, too close to affectionate. Guts recoils, refuses to give Griffith anything, especially something like this, but the hand on the other side of his face is unmoving, iron. Fingers grip the back of his hair, softly but in warning. 

The rumors were true, about the pacifying effect he had on others, how he captivated everyone in the room— you wanted to listen to him, look at him. He was always like this, Guts knew that, he should’ve been used to it, but Griffith had increased tenfold in beauty and charisma— he was hypnotic, ethereal, were it not for the stabbing pain from his brand he would’ve doubted this was actually happening. 

But his anger and hate was all he had, he doesn’t want to listen to Griffith on his fucking soapbox, bastard doesn’t deserve to be listened to. He’s not going to let himself be convinced, tricked— he doesn’t wanna think about morality or philosophy, he’s had years to think about this, he understands perfectly, all he has to do is rip Griffith’s throat out and end all this suffering. 

It shows on his face, with his angry eye squinted and brows furrowed. His throat is dry, he swallows. “If you’re so… fucking pragmatic and perfect… why did you do… THAT… to Casca..??”

Griffith looks like he was waiting for that question, lips pursing. “The band of the hawk… was mine to do with as I pleased. They pledged their lives to me when they joined. I wasn’t wrong in sacrificing them. It was their choice.”

“Casca doesn’t count in that though you fucking—“ He’s spitting in his anger, he’s so fucking pissed— “She wanted to leave, she wanted to—“

“But she ultimately decided to stay with me. That was her choice in the end. I heard it all.”

There’s a crazy, stupid, small part of Guts that flinches at this, an apparently never-ending guilt pre-eclipse still residing in him. Stupid,  _ stupid _ , like he could be responsible for what was Griffith’s choice. 

Griffith of course picks it up, leans in closer. Close enough that Guts could lunge out and snap at him, but he seemed unconcerned. “In the end she chose me over you. She offered her life, her future, her body to me. I was not wrong in taking it.”

Guts finally can’t bear looking at him, he averts his gaze, his breath knocked out of him. “In front of me?? You looked at me the entire time,  _ bullshit _ , you didn’t have to— 

A quiet touch to his face, tilting it up like a kind suggestion rather than an act against his will has his eye swerving back to glare at him. “You… left me… so that you could discover your own dream. When you had returned to me without it, I knew you would never find it, and throw your life away endlessly searching. And so I gave you a dream.”

A dream a dream— was wanting to murder someone a dream? So ridiculous, pathetic, he didn’t want this— “You raped Casca just to make me mad? Are you serious??”

“Look how much stronger you’ve become, despite your wounds, your humanity. The power of your ambition made you transcend destiny and all possibility. You are the only one who has ever matched my progress and drive. In this respect, we are equals.”

Long ago, Guts didn’t dare try and imagine Griffith saying those words to him. They felt too far away, too unattainable, a cruel play with his hopes. To not be looked down upon, to stand beside, to be  _ equals _ . Old Guts couldn’t even fathom reaching Griffith’s level, his acknowledgement seemed too impossible. 

He shakily withdraws from Griffith, all his violent vigor sapped out of him. He’d known Griffith wasn’t the kind gentleman he was around the nobles and soldiers. He had been aware of the other’s machiavellian nature. And yet he never suspected he would become this, not even after hearing him verbally consent to the sacrifice. He thought Griffith’s heart weighed over his ambition. 

Maybe Guts just didn’t understand because he never had such ambition. But he did now.. this drive that made him overcome fate and fortune. And here Griffith was asking him to choose heart. 

There was no justification that could change Guts’ mind though, not anymore. It didn’t matter if everything could be undone, if everyone else could forgive Griffith. 

Guts understands now. He does.  _ This _ is what it means 

“Nothing.. NOTHING you say could make me forgive you. 

“If you decide like me, then you’re the same as me. Then you’re no better. Then you condone what I’ve done.”

His body goes rigid in cold indignity. 

A small part of him knows it’s not all hate.. the hesitation, the awe, the wretched hopefulness… of course he wants the old Griffith back. 

To return to Griffith’s side, the Band of the Hawk back from the dead, Casca with her memories back— as if nothing ever happened, like the last few years were just a dream— erasing Griffith’s cruelty, cold utilitarianism. Guts would be forced to forgive him, as there would be nothing to avenge—

How easy, how nice it would be to spend the rest of his life as a soldier, his soldier, filled with pride for having served well, for contributing to something good. But Griffith isn’t, and never will be good. To submit is to call him that. He can’t. 

But he should want this. If  _ this _ is it takes to bring them all back, he should, must do it. Revenge gets him nothing. Submission saves everyone. 

But, to just forgive, forget, is like  _ death _ . And, and he was committing to dying for this, staked his life on it… 

Casca’s face flashes in his head and it should be enough, should be the final driving force, but it isn’t. 

To make the same decision would truly cement him as Griffith’s equal— their drive evenly matched. The moment he forgives is the moment he loses his footing and sinks to being just another underling. He’s finally climbed up here, and to now fall… 

Was his dream, all this time, to be Griffith’s equal?

Griffith smiles at him, almost manic, the expression unnatural for his usually mild-mannered composition. “That’s right. You now have a dream that rivals mine, one that you would do anything for. You’re worthy of being called my friend. Your dream is to kill me, yes? Is that it exactly? Or is it just me?”

Guts flinches, doesn’t want to think about the implications there— There’s no way he felt that twisted posessiveness, that was only Griffith—

“Well, you have it.” And he truly does look happy now. “But, because of my dream, and because you are my equal, I must tear you down. I must have you Guts. There’s no other way. 

The step after finding an equal is to beat them. There can only be one. 

“I originally believed that I had two possible fates. One with the godhand, as the holder of the behelit, ruler of all. The other with my friends, with you, my dream forgotten. I sacrificed you to be here now. But,” He digs the nail of his thumb into the brand, watches the forever raw skin part. “If I am king, if I’m to own everything this world has to offer.. Aren’t you included in that?” 

“Is it because this flesh is yours? I believed that to be the reason… but now it’s clear. You are part of my dream. My dream is my reason for being, it is the sole thing that can move me. You transcend this frozen blood, you are a vital part of my destiny, you gave me the resolve to join the godhand. You move me in a way that I need… you must be by my side for my dream to be complete. To drive me, to assist me.” He cups Guts’ face in his hand, exactly as he had done so the day they met, and just like that time, Guts was transfixed by the look in his eyes, possessive and determined. 

”....I was wrong that time… Just as you’re forever bound by me, I am bound by you. I thought I was free… I thought being beyond you is freedom. But freedom is anything I say it is.” His voice is taking on an odd tone, finally that cool composure, that feigned impassivity broken. There’s a note of hysteria there, a hint of his actual instability, proof that even now he wasn’t that stone cold rational god he thought himself to be. The discovery is no victory, there’s no chance for it, not when the soft grip on both sides of Guts’ face start to squeeze. 

“I don’t have to make a choice. I never did actually make a choice. I can have it all. You always have, and will be, all mine.”

“No—“

“You have nothing to sacrifice in order to become an apostle, right? Well, in a way, you did sacrifice me, I believe that make you an honorary apostle. However, you chose the one person who can’t be traditionally sacrificed, so you can never properly do it… but that’s alright. I can bend any rule, as my right as king. You’ve given up your humanity a long time ago anyway.”

In the corner of his peripheral, he can see the tips of Griffith’s fingers have gone black, Femto rearing his ugly head. Talons, like a hawk’s, begin to dig into his skin, cutting into his face— marking him. 

“...While an eyeball is ball shaped, the skull accommodates the optic nerve as well, created a hollow that is.. egg shaped.” Guts gets it right away. 

Griffith pulls a behelit out of thin air, rolls it between his fingers. “I’ll replace what I took from you. After all, we’re equals. It’s only fair if you have equal power.” It’s— it’s smaller than the one Griffith had, small enough to— 

He thrashes, or he wants to, but all that comes out is a pathetic shiver. Griffith’s eyes are calm and peaceful as he closes in, draws the behelit toward his empty eye socket. 

He doesn’t feel anything at first, the skin healed enough where mere contact didn’t hurt, but then the tip began to push in, a gentle twist back and forth to coax the skin apart. A scream is instantly torn out of him despite his pain tolerance. The pain is so focused but at the same time all encompassing and he feels like it’s tearing through his brain, drilling all the way through his skull. He feels so full of it, he wonders if it’s expanding in him, his jaw falls open and his eye opens painfully wide, body trying to accommodate its size, waiting for it to overflow and leak out of him. He can’t feel anything anymore, can’t tell if the screaming is from him, or it, but if it’s from the behelit, then it’s from him, isn’t it? Perhaps he’s just delirious from the pain but he feels like he has more eyes now, not the normal one or even two, but maybe three— His right eye burns, the asymmetry rejected by his brain, and he has no control when it shuts, can’t will it open. 

“I need you to say it. You offer yourself as sacrifice.” He hears Griffith was such clarity, it’s grounding, it's comforting— he blindly leans into the voice, not processing his words. 

“I offer myself as sacrifice.” The words are right by his ear, whispered, and fingers touch his lips coaxingly. It’s so sweet, even when his nails begin to dig in. Guts doesn’t even realize he’s bleeding until Griffith swoops in to lap it up. His tongue is so soothing, everything about him is, angelic and gentle. He never actively allowed himself to think about it, but it had come to him in dreams before, unbidden. Griffith wouldn’t be soft with him, but still soft to the touch, when Guts would reach out. Guts, so fearful to touch and be touched, would with Griffith. In the past. 

(There has been a dream, once, only one time, after the eclipse. Griffith on top of him, long hair curtaining the two of them, frames so thick Guts can’t see anything but him. Griffith, same as ever, pink lips and knowing eyes, leaning in close close closer.) (Guts might be able to forgive himself for having such a dream if the version of him in it didn’t only have one eye) (Why isn’t he already past this?) (Will he ever be?)

His touch pries Guts’ fingers off his pride, one by one, a lulling, gradual pull, like the beat of ocean waves. It’s unbearably kind, his only solace— he feels cleansed of his hate and anger, like it was washing away, like how a rock becomes smooth after years underwater, bumps and ridges beaten down and away. 

They really can go back. Everything would be like before, except they’d be equals this time. Friends. That exclusive respect all his, only his. 

The pain is so intense he feels tears being forced out of his eye, feels it stream down his face, and while he can’t see, he swears it’s blood. 

“You’re my equal, Guts. Only you. My only friend.”

And all rationale is discarded, violent and sudden, like it was cut out of him. Only him, only him, only him. Casca, Charlotte, everyone in the whole world— but only Guts. 

He doesn’t hear it, when the words finally leave him, but he feels it. The relief is near instant, washed out by a strong wave of power, power like he’s never known, never seen. 

When his eye opens, it’s not his right but his left. Everything takes on a red wash, like the aftermath of a massacre. Only Griffith appears in his true colors, glows a royal gold hue. The pain is no more. 

Then a touch at his— at his right arm, newly formed it seems, huge and discolored— all of him is actually, he would look but—

Griffith’s eyes, victorious, satisfied and… happy. Locked onto him, like he too can’t look away. 

Yes, like he said… forever bound. Each other’s only weakness, only rival, only friend. Guts doesn’t feel like he’s lost. 

**Author's Note:**

> nobody cares abt berserk anymore i know,,, this was all written for me. i snuck in all my griffith apologism ahaha i still think he’s a stinky bastard


End file.
